Canvas
by Underworld's-Reject
Summary: He was his canvas, the freak. A blank canvas for The Master to do as he pleased with, to create wonderful patterns on his body, using his blood. His beautifully wrong canvas. Not slash.


Summary; He was his canvas, the freak. A blank canvas for The Master to do as he pleased with, to create wonderful patterns on his body, using his blood. His beautifully wrong canvas.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>**Don't own anything.****  
>Warnings: <strong>**Hmmm…Psycho thoughts. Torture, mentions of torture.****  
>AN: <strong>**It just came to me one evening…I don't know why. YTNW fic. Oh, it's good to upload and be alive! Sorry it's been ridiculously long.**

/

He was his canvas, the freak. A blank canvas for The Master to do as he pleased with, to create wonderful patterns on his body, using the man's own blood. Canvases weren't renewable. You used them once, and they were finished; holding the picture which had been etched into their surface. Captain Jack, however…was a reusable, everlasting canvas. There were endless combinations, endless variations of torture that the freak could be subjected to. It truly was beautiful, The Master decided, running the hand over the dead Captain's cheek, caressing the skin softly. The power of having such a toy to play with. Such a canvas to carve madness and pain into… The simple ability to create rivers of blood on the tanned skin. He smiled, watching as the wounds slowly started to heal. As soon as the Captain awoke, he would begin painting again; running his chosen torture implement across the skin…creating gore streaks, painting with the blood, and most likely…Eliciting beautiful cries of pain from the immortal.

In mere minutes, the wounds had healed, leaving his canvas untarnished and ready for use. He gave a slight shudder of delight. The Captain jolted suddenly, a raw and painful gasp bursting free of his throat, as his lungs struggled to intake air. He pulled against his restraints, his eyes flickering around in momentary disorientation. They settled on The Master. "You're still here."  
>The Timelord nodded once, studying the immoral with calculating eyes, which seemed to penetrate his very core. The younger man held his gaze, a determined fire burning within his eyes. He would not look away. He'd be defiant until the end. Always. "Handsome Jack…" The Master paused and stepped closer. "Has anyone ever told you that you're beautiful?"<p>

The immortal frowned at him, taken by surprise and a little unnerved by his words, and by him. "It's been said," he acknowledged smugly, hiding behind his bravado.  
>"Wrong, but beautiful," the Timelord continued.<br>"Okay, I get the picture…What are you playing at?" Jack demanded.  
>"Just admiring what's mine for a few moments," The Master replied, pulling a knife from one of his pockets. It was deathly sharp, with a jagged blade; the tip coming to a firm, but merciless point. Jack repressed a cringe, even though his blood seemed to run cold and the room seemed to darken. "So beautiful," The Master reinstated. He stepped forwards and raised the knife; his eyes burning into the immortal's own. "You coming onto me?" Jack mocked, even though his heart was beating overtime; even though fear was coursing through him. Fear which he tried desperately not to show. The Timelord ignored him, finding it easy to block out his words, merely focusing on the moments they were about to share. On the masterpiece he was about to create.<p>

With no further hesitation, he placed the tip of the blade on Jack's chest-his shirt having been torn open in one of their earlier sessions- and dragging it across his chest, slicing downwards; the blade seeming to flash in his hand. Jack cried out in pain, as a long streak like cut was made down his chest. The foundations of the picture, the paint lining the canvas…The red, a beautiful contrast against the tanned, lightly golden skin. The Master smiled once more, and raised the knife again, the blade glinting in the light and drawing more blood and cries from the Captain as he stuck mercilessly. Blood which splattered…creating beautiful patterns.

He struck again, and again, and again. Slice after slice. Stroke after stroke, of blood on skin, relishing in the beauty and agony he was creating. Yes, he was The Master, and the freak was his canvas. The flesh, just waiting to be painted with blood. His canvas. His beautiful canvas. His beautifully wrong canvas.


End file.
